


Dies Irae

by smallcroissant



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:19:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallcroissant/pseuds/smallcroissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles featuring various Les Mis characters in the modern era. Each can be read as a stand-alone work, or as a series. </p>
<p>*Rating might be subject to change</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dies irae, dies illa--Day of Wrath, that Dreadful Day

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters of this fic are inspired by the Medieval Latin hymn "Dies Irae". The lines of the hymn serve as inspiration for each drabble, but will rarely be the subject of each chapter. Note also that this is just one translation of the hymn, and yes, there are others out there. This is the one I am using; I do not study Latin and therefore do not know if this translation is 100% accurate. If you notice an error, I would really like it if you point it out to me so that I can fix it. 
> 
> I am looking at trying to write 39 chapters--one for each line.

**Enjolras**

Paris smells different from where he sits now—high above the windowsills and chimneys of a developed, cultivated landscape. It’s got that pungent odour of fresh paint, lost dreams, and rust. There doesn’t seem to be much more to it than iron and chrome, but that doesn’t distract from the odd beauty that is this city, and why he has loved it since he came here. It’s a place to be seen, lost, forgotten, and mistaken. It’s a home away from home.  
And it’s burning like a thousand angry suns right before his eyes.  
Enjolras avoids looking too far past his fire escape, over to the clothing lines with musty laundry hanging above the rat-infested streets. He tries not to listen to the newborn squeal as a mother holds him to her breast on the park bench. He chooses to ignore the devious look of a man in a trench coat, loitering outside the boulangerie with a cigarette balanced between trembling, anxious fingers.  
These things tarnish Paris and all of its beauty. These are the things that wake him up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. They aren’t pretty or passionate or anything more than what they are. They announce to the world the discontent of the Parisians and everything that Enjolras stands for, but he takes no comfort in them. Instead, he rather resents their flaws and plays it off to his own personal dissatisfaction.  
He grows restless as he swings his legs back and forth on the balcony, walking on air above the street lamps and covered awnings of his street. He observes, but does not reflect, now—too much to think and not enough time to process. He sits in his quiet wrath and dreams of a different Paris, a different France, a different world, and tries too hard to forget that today is just another day.  
Today is any other day in Paris, and it smells just as odd and feels just as foreign as it did when he felt satisfied with it.


	2. Solvet saeclum in favilla--That Will Dissolve the World into Burning Coals

**Courfeyrac**

How long ago had it been since the bonfire they had in the street that night? Since the new year? Just last week? Time doesn’t seem to correlate anymore, now that he thinks about it.  
He’s one of the last to leave the coffee shop around closing time, as usual. The man behind the bar with the sullen face obviously just wants him to pack up his stuff, toss his Styrofoam cup into the trash, and head for home, but he can’t do that when he’s caught in his reverie. Somehow, the whirl of the espresso machine and the clang of teeth on porcelain invites him into the dark recesses of his memory, prodding at a time when he remembered being completely and utterly happy.  
The bonfire they had—it had been so large and passionate. One of their friends had brought a trashcan out from the alley behind the pawn store, lit up whatever had been put inside, and set it in the centre of the park they had been loitering in past decent hours one day in winter. It had been a cold day—Courfeyrac remembers donning his favourite yellow scarf and hat as he thrust his hands out closer to the flame to feel the heat of the coals and burning newspaper.  
The colour of it was something unimaginable. Passionate reds and sultry orange danced across his vision like stars across the sky. Caught in a dreamlike state, this fire gave off more than just radiant heat. Better yet, it was shared between several of Courfeyrac’s closest friends on a cold night that never seemed to want to end.  
It had been one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, he thinks…And he wishes more than anything to have that time back.  
He remembers who stood across from him that fateful night, full of life and hope just like the flame between them. Did he feel this longing, too? Does he ever think back to the time when things were better? Or were all possibilities of something _more_ extinguished with that fire, when the police came and kicked them out of the park? Because they had never shared a night together like that since, he’s sure. Joking and laughing all the way home to the apartments, Combeferre had felt like something _more_ to Courfeyrac.  
Definitely something more, but he tries too hard not to dwell on.  
And now he takes his leave, the flickering of falling ash clear in his brain. He tucks in his chair, walks to the exit, gives a firm wave to the barista behind the bar, and steps into the streets of Paris.  
Hope rekindles the fire that grows within him.


	3. Teste David cum Sibylla—As David bore witness with the Sibyl

**Gavroche**

He found the cat in the park one day right before nightfall. Lying helplessly on its side, it could have been easily mistaken for a forgotten sweater left on the ground by some careless person. Its hair was mangled beyond belief—ratty and tattered and mottled all up. Gavroche looked at it and felt sickness settle in his stomach. The idea that this animal had been so poorly neglected made him want to vomit.   
Although time was slipping past him and he was expected at home, he took the time to sit down on the gravel of the walkway by it. He didn’t even think about it twice, just impulsively felt the need to give this creature some reassurance of its worth, because didn’t it deserve that much? Wary upon whether or not he should reach out a hand to stroke through the tangled bits of fur, Gavroche decided that maybe talking to it would be a better, more comforting method of letting this cat know he cared about it.   
“You look a little sad, my friend. I hate to see you this way,” He spoke softly, eliciting a quiet moan from the starving figure next to him. “When my friends are sad, I am never happy. Who could, I guess? It’s no fun to be happy when someone you love is not…unless it is in teasing, and Courf is trying to push my buttons, I guess….”   
And it took him a moment to realise he was talking to a stray, who couldn’t understand his words and most likely wouldn’t have even cared regardless, about his friends. He felt like a madman only for a moment, before sympathy won him over.   
“And you must be so hungry, by the looks of it…I don’t have anything to feed you, I’m afraid. I ate lunch at a small café today—just a bit of bread and jam, and I don’t think cats like that. Plus, I didn’t save you any, because I didn’t know you’d be here, friend…I didn’t think I’d pass by the park this evening at all, actually…”   
He continued to ramble on and on for several minutes, animated in his speech and using a proper amount of hand gesture to further his point, before he momentarily began to ponder why he kept trailing off with his train of thought, why he kept calling the cat ‘friend’, and how much trouble he’d be in now that dark was settling upon and nestling into the streets of his city.   
“I have no food to give you, have talked your ears off, and have probably annoyed you more than anyone who you saw today, but I just had to stop and talk to you, cat, because you looked so lonesome.”   
And I know what that feels like, to be alone. It seems like I’ve had that feeling my whole life. He thought, just to himself, as his jaw tightened. He knew how he felt about this, but had never really admitted it in so many words to himself, even in his head.   
“…but, you know, cat? All it took was one person to reach out to me to change all that, and that’s what I wanted to do for you. I once was dirty and grimy like you are—so lost and hungry and without a single friend, and…well, I found one person, and they changed my whole life! It’s funny how those things happen, huh? Just one damn acquaintance, and I’ll never be the same again!” And now he was smiling so hard—a grin from ear to ear, and he hoped his mood would prove to be infectious—resurrect the cat and give humanity some hope.   
The cat did not even stir.   
He was about to continue with his speech, but from across the park, he heard a call of his name—  
“Gavroche?! It’s getting late, you are wanted back home!!” Came the booming voice of Eponine, and he knew then that he had overstayed his time with the creature. Quickly, he got to his feet, brushed off the dirt from his jeans, and gave a goodbye to it in the form of an innocent curtsey, before running off toward the sound of his sister’s voice.   
It was perhaps for the best that Gavroche did not stay longer, for if he had, he might’ve noticed that all that remained of the cat was its tired carcass—the rest of its spirit was handed over to god on the wind of his words.


End file.
